The sun hadn't yet burned away the mist when the villagers began to gather at the western gate with spears slung across their backs and laughter echoing like windchimes in the crisp morning air.
Sun Longzi watched from the edge of the camp, his black cloak damp from the dew, the collar pulled high to shadow his eyes. Today felt different—not just in the air, but in the cadence of footsteps, in the lack of hesitation in the villagers' movements.
Zhu Lianhua hadn't left his tent in days. His screams still echoed from behind the thick canvas—ragged and guttural, often followed by the violent crashing of furniture or a startled soldier stumbling away, white-faced and silent. No one mentioned the cage anymore. No one dared mention the scars. Not even Zhu Deming.
Instead, the Second Prince stood beside Sun Longzi at the edge of the village, their armor traded for plain tunics and hunter's gear. Their hair was tied back simply, and their weapons hidden beneath layered cloth.
